Chapter 15 #2
“Dr. Gwen Lyons, this is Bridget McConnell, professional pain in me arse.” He grinned at her, but she frowned back. “This is the sword Theo called about. It’s got an inscription matching one at St. Catherine’s.”
“Does it, now?” Bridget extended a hand. “Pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“American?” Her handshake was firm and brief. “And you’re in Anglo-Saxon weaponry?”
“Ancient arms and armor, and yes, I studied in Leeds.” Why was I justifying myself to her? I hadn’t felt the need to do that with Fergus. Because the way she looked at me was different.
Please don’t let her know.
She withdrew her hand, narrowed her eyes, and gave me a blatant once-over. “Your name is familiar.”
Shit, she knew.
“Didn’t you work at the Marlcombe Collection? Two or three years ago?”
Double shit.
“With Lionel Davenport, right?”
I was suddenly back in Lionel’s office, jabbing a finger at my phone to show him the paper he’d published.
My heart seized, and I was back on the day I’d demanded an explanation he didn’t bother to give.
Maybe I was overreacting. Why would the gossip have landed here?
“I did. I was the primary researcher on the Walmere sword project.”
“Aye, were you, now?” Bridget barely glanced at the sword.
“I did ten years back home at Kelvingrove before I wound up here with Fergus and the trinkets. I heard the Walmere story differently, but these things do get muddled in the retelling. Hard to know who did what, and who received consent from whom, isn’t it? ”
I still had my phone out to photograph Fergus’s documents, but I couldn’t take any other pictures. The air in the room grew heavier. “I’m sorry, but what did you say your name was?”
Lionel had taken me to the Kelvingrove once while I was completing my research on the Walmere sword. They had a small collection of arms and armor. I didn’t remember meeting a Bridget McConnell, though.
“Bridget, be nice,” said Fergus. “You’re just sore I messed with your table.”
“Hush now, Fergus. Theo sounded quite impressed by her credentials.” Her eyes shifted to Arthur and stayed on him a moment too long. Then she looked back at me. “Though I suppose when credentials wear a pretty smile and a low-cut shirt, the details tend to blur, don’t they?”
“Excuse me?” said Arthur, who’d drifted closer to us.
Lionel had shushed me before he closed his office door the day I’d found my research with his name on it.
He’d said I misunderstood. He’d grabbed me, held me in his arms, and said we were partners.
It had been a simple mistake, and he’d take care of it.
He’d kissed me, as though it would fix everything, and I’d fallen for it.
Fergus glanced between us, his brow furrowed.
I started to put my phone into my pocket, then lifted it again.
The photocopies blurred on the table, and the air almost choked me.
I tucked my phone away, slid my laptop into my bag, and pushed Lionel’s face out of my mind.
“I think I have what I need. Thank you, Fergus. Your work is genuinely valuable, and I hope you understand that.”
“But we’ve—” He cut off. “Of course. I’ll be here if you’d like to follow up.”
“I’ll email you.” I slung my bag over my shoulder, and Arthur was immediately next to me.
He closed the sword case and picked it up. Held the shop door open as I walked through. Came out into the rain behind me. “You’re done already?”
“I got what I needed.”
‘A pretty smile and a low-cut shirt.’ When would words like that stop following me?
After I left the Marlcombe Collection, I’d applied at six different museums of various sizes around southern England.
Three of the people who’d been hired weren’t half as qualified as I was, and I hadn’t gotten so much as an interview for those positions.
Two had said they spoke with Lionel and ended the process.
One had asked me outright what had happened with Lionel.
He’d had too much power in our little world, and though he’d never said it publicly, there had been whispers.
The States didn’t have as many places for me to apply my expertise, but they didn’t have Lionel, either.
Or his rumors. Or his knowing glances that would have told people his side of the story.
I zipped up my jacket to my neck.
Arthur opened the umbrella and carried it over both of us. “Are you sure?”
Go back in, Gwen. Ask Fergus about the parish diary. Ask for the originals. Do your job.
The moment I’d made the plan to come to Cornwall, I should have realized I was stepping into his sphere. Three years hadn’t put enough distance between me and Lionel fucking Davenport. “I’m sure.”
The car was to our right. Arthur started toward it.
“I want to walk for a bit.”
“It’s raining, Gwen.”
“I’m not sugar. I won’t melt. Take the sword back to the car. I’ll be there soon.”
Arthur stopped at the car and opened the door for me.
But I kept going.
I walked past the hotel because that was the direction I was facing, not because I’d made any real choice. Not because I was a silly girl having a silly reaction to a woman who wouldn’t have believed me if I tried to tell her the truth about what happened.
The rain hit my hair and my jacket, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
Lionel’s face looped in my head, broken only by flashes of Bridget’s eyes on Arthur and the reports spread across Fergus’s table.
Go back, Gwen.
I couldn’t.
Go back in and ask your questions.
An umbrella appeared over my head. Arthur walked beside me, matching my pace, the sword case in his other hand. He didn’t say anything. He just kept me dry and kept his eyes forward.
And I just kept on walking.